


The Devil You Know

by darkavengerz (darkavenger)



Category: Marvel
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Violence, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 22:59:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2246523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkavenger/pseuds/darkavengerz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You just want to kill him.” Daredevil gets to his feet, straightening in one easy, supple movement, still keeping his body between Frank and his target. “Shoot him while he’s down, how noble of you.”</p><p>Frank ignores the jab. He doesn’t give a shit about honor, or justice, or any of those lofty ideals Murdock likes to go on about. He stopped caring about those things long ago, along with things like God and Heaven. It’s not that he thinks those things don’t exist, just not for people like him. He doesn’t get the luxury of faith, or the hope of salvation. “Last warning, choir boy. Move out of the way.”</p><p>Daredevil turns, body tense. “Or what, you’ll shoot me too?”</p><p>“I don’t want to shoot you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil You Know

**Author's Note:**

> beta'd by canam77 :)

He’s two seconds away from blowing the head off some piece of criminal trash when he hears him.

“Leave him alone, Punisher.”

Daredevil. The voice is enough to throw him temporarily. He hesitates, just for a second, but that’s all it takes. It’s enough time for the low-life scum to fumble with the safety on his own gun, aim and shoot. Frank dives, but he must be getting slow in his old age. The bullet grazes his leg. Shit. It hurts, but it’s nothing he’s hasn’t dealt with before. He’s losing blood, but not enough for any immediate danger so he pushes down the pain, discards it as not helpful. It’s his pride more than anything that’s hurt, at letting some punk get a shot off. Can’t afford to let him get another. Even a crap shot like this guy can’t miss twice at this close a range.

He’s on his feet immediately, gun in hand and this time nothing’s going to stop him putting a bullet through this guy’s brain. Except before he gets the chance, there’s a blur of white to his left, and the man crumples soundlessly to the ground. Murdock retrieves his billy-club and moves to the fallen criminal’s side, no doubt purposely positioning his body so there’s no way for Frank to get a clear shot in. And Frank just doesn’t get that, why Murdock would do that, put himself between a piece of human garbage and danger. Except obviously, he doesn’t think Frank poses a danger, not to him at least. He grits his teeth at that - at the sheer arrogance of the man - and at the fact he’s not entirely wrong. Frank doesn’t shoot the good guys, not even when they’re a pain in the ass like Murdock.

Still. He can’t afford to just let this criminal go. He’s a drug-dealer, which is reason enough to kill him, but he’s more unscrupulous than the average dealer when it comes to cutting his product with other substances. There’s been a handful of deaths in the last month alone, most of them dumb kids who don’t know this guy’s rep for using rat poison to bulk up his supply. And there’s Murdock, kneeling by this scumbag’s side, checking he didn’t hit the guy too hard on the head. It really burns Frank up to see.

“Move out the way, Devil,” Frank warns, limping forward and lifting his handgun. Adrenaline’s wearing off now and the pain’s harder to ignore. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You just want to kill him.” Daredevil gets to his feet, straightening in one easy, supple movement, still keeping his body between Frank and his target. “Shoot him while he’s down, how noble of you.”

Frank ignores the jab. He doesn’t give a shit about honor, or justice, or any of those lofty ideals Murdock likes to go on about. He stopped caring about those things long ago, along with things like God and Heaven. It’s not that he thinks those things don’t exist, just not for people like him. He doesn’t get the luxury of faith, or the hope of salvation. “Last warning, choir boy. Move out of the way.”

Daredevil turns, body tense. “Or what, you’ll shoot me too?”

“I don’t want to shoot you.” Frank holds the gun steady. He’s tired and as close to pleading as he can let himself get. There’s blood in his boot, squelching between his toes. Another wound to tend, another scar to add to the collection.

“That makes two of us,” Murdock quips, and then he’s moving, lashing out at Frank, driving him back, and damnit, but he’s too close for Frank to fire, especially since Frank’s not interested in seriously hurting him, tempting as it is right now.

Jerking back, Frank tries to put some distance between them, gritting his teeth at the pain that lances up his leg as he moves. He’s losing blood still, and at a faster rate as his heart rate elevates. That’s going to be a problem if this fight drags out. Just means he needs to end this fast, try and draw Murdock out so he can get a clear shot. He sidesteps Daredevil’s next punch, gets in one of his own, a blow to the stomach that leaves the man doubled-over and wheezing. Frank turns sharply, knowing that Daredevil’s only temporarily incapacitated. His vision blurs with the sudden movement, and he stumbles, off-balance. Blood loss. One last time he raises his gun, and tries to take aim. Before he can squeeze down on the trigger, he catches a glimpse of tell-tale red out of the corner of his eye, all the warning he gets before Murdock’s billy-club slams into the back off his head and knocks him into unconsciousness.

When Frank comes round, he’s left momentarily disoriented by the pulsing pain in his head and the sight of Daredevil’s muscular, red-clad ass bobbing in front of him. Not the worst sight he’s come round to. Still, he can’t take the time to savour the view. Murdock’s got him in a fireman’s lift, slung ungracefully over his shoulder, and god knows where he thinks he’s taking him.

“Ah, you’re awake. Good. I was beginning to think maybe you’d got hit round the head one too many times.” Murdock’s voice is wry. Of course, he would know the instant Frank came round.

“Put me down,” Frank grates out.

“Gladly,” Murdock says, “that is, if you’re sure you can walk unassisted.”

“I’m fine.” Honestly, he’s not sure that he can, head woozy from the blow and the blood-loss, wounded leg feeling worryingly numb, but he’ll cope. He always does.

“If you insist.” Murdock stops walking and shifts to let Frank slide  to his feet.

It’s only then that Frank realises how queasy he is, the sidewalk shifting under his feet like he’s on the deck of a ship. Great. Concussion, all he needs. Still, he swallows down on the nausea and the pain, and tries to walk. He manages one stride before his injured leg crumples under his weight. He braces himself for the fall, but it never comes. Murdock’s beside him, arm looped around his waist and holding him steady.

“Sure you don’t want me to carry you?” Murdock’s enough of an asshole that he doesn’t hide the amusement in his tone at Frank’s predicament.

“Just call me a cab.” Frank’s not seeing the funny side.

“Sure,” Murdock says, “I’m sure there’s plenty of cabdrivers eager to have you bleed all over their upholstery.”

Frank snorts at that, “This neighbourhood? I’m sure they see worse.”

Murdock doesn’t argue with that. “We’re a half-block from one of your safehouses.” Frank tenses up at that, at the blatant admission that Murdock keeps tabs on Frank’s hideouts. It’s not that he was unaware the man knew, but it’s one of those things he tries to avoid thinking about. It bothers him, or perhaps it doesn’t bother him enough. Given their physical proximity, Murdock couldn’t have failed to notice the response his words elicit in Frank, indeed, he might have said it just to unsettle Frank, but he continues as if he’s unaware. “Think you can manage, or do you need me to call you a cab?”

“I’m fine.” How many times has he said those words, he wonders.

It’s Murdock’s turn to snort at that. “I’d like to see how far you get without my help.”

“Watch me.” Frank pulls himself free of Murdock’s steadying hold. I don’t need your help. Bracing his leg with his hand, he steps forward. This time his leg holds. Slowly, painfully, he moves, with relentless intent. He thinks of sharks.If they stop swimming, they drown. So they never stop, they never sleep.  He can relate to that. His war gives him purpose. It drives him, motivates him. Keeps him moving forward, and gives him the illusion that the forward movement is progress. Without it, he’d be dead. So he keeps going.

“Jesus -” Murdock cuts himself off mid-curse, moves to Frank’s side.

“Watch yourself Devil, almost blasphemed,” Frank says drily, but he accepts the proffered shoulder, leans heavily against Murdock. Together they make their way through the darkness.

They get to the safehouse without incident. “I can take it from here,” Frank tells Murdock, but the man just waits silently while Frank unlocks the place and deactivates the traps. Wearily, Frank stumbles into the room, moving unerringly and with grim determination towards the cot in the corner as the fluorescent lights flicker on overhead. The sickly light burns into his retinas, makes his head pound harder. “There’s a first-aid kit under the table,” he says, sitting heavily.

He closes his eyes, just for a second, or so it feels, but when he opens them Murdock’s kneeling in front of him, first aid kit open beside him. Distantly, he is alarmed that he hadn’t noticed Murdock getting that close, but mainly he’s too tired to care. He watches as Murdock runs a hand over the contents off the kit before selecting the scissors.

“Probably easier to just cut you out.”

Frank doesn’t say anything, and Murdock must take his silence for the assent it is, because he starts cutting, sharp blades shearing through blood-soaked fabric. The cold metal of the scissor blade slides over Frank’s skin as Murdock snips efficiently around the bullet wound. The blood stains his gloves a brighter crimson.

“Why you doing this?” Frank asks, breaking the silence. “Guilt over getting me shot?”

“You got yourself shot,” Murdock responds, not looking up. “And I’m not the one with murder on my conscience.”

“And I’m not the one showing mercy to killers,” Frank retorts, though without fire. It’s an old argument, as old as their acquaintance. He hisses out a breath as Murdock pulls the fabric free from his skin, peeling away the sticky, half-dried mess.  Blood begins to sluggishly pour from the graze anew.

“This is going to sting,” Murdoch warns.

“Get on with it,” Frank orders dispassionately. Murdock’s lips tugs down momentarily, a grimace of faint dismay Frank almost misses in the poor light, before Murdock complies, washing the wound clean of detritus. It hurts, but the pain’s almost welcome at this point, clearing some of the fog that’s settled over his brain, distracting him from the deft, sure touch of Murdock’s hands as he applies a dressing with the ease that comes with practice. Frank wonders how many times Murdock’s had to tend his own wounds, if that’s what’s prompting this unsolicited kindness.

“There,” Murdock rocks back on his heels, a faint smile of satisfaction crossing his face.

“Not bad,” Frank acknowledges, looking the bandaging over. Stiffly, he gets to his feet, starts to pull his ruined trousers off. “You can leave now,” he adds, in case Murdock can’t take the hint.

Murdoch gets to his feet, crossing his arms. “Not going to thank me?”

“Sure,” Frank says, hobbling over to the shelf where he keeps spare sets of clothes and selecting some loose-fitting sweatpants. “Thanks for getting in my way and giving me a concussion.”

“Getting in your way?” Murdock’s voice rises, tone battling between incredulity and anger. “I knew I should have left you for the police.”

“Should have just let me handle it,” Frank responds evenly. Murdock’s lips thin, and Frank readies himself for another blow, for a further escalation in the hostility that crackles in the air between them.

“You can’t handle it,” Murdock insists, advancing on Frank, closing the gap between them. “That’s the problem! You’re out of control, and one day you’re going to get yourself killed, and I wouldn’t give a damn except for the innocent bystanders you’re going to take down with you.” He slams a fist against Frank’s chest for emphasis.

“If you believe that, then you really should have left me for the cops,” Frank says flatly, taking a step back. His hands curl into fists, a strange sense of relief washing over him at the turn this evening is taking. “But you’re kidding yourself if you think you keep people safe. You think you’re protecting innocents, when you step between me and criminal scum?”

Murdock’s jaw tightens, and for a moment Frank’s sure he’s going to take a swing, that he’s goaded him into losing it. That sick sense of relief intensifies at the threat of impending violence, the restoration of the natural order of things.

But Murdock doesn’t hit him, though he clearly has to fight to restrain himself, lowering his fists and stepping backwards with a shake of his head. “No. I’m not doing this with you, Frank. Not again. Not tonight.”

“Then why did you come here?” Frank demands, and it’s his turn to chase after Murdock. “What did you want?” Frustration bleeds into his voice, and he’s aware he’s almost shouting.

Murdock looks surprised at his outburst, almost dismayed. His normal confidence seems to have evaporated, leaving him hesitant and uncertain, caught between Frank and the door. “I don’t know,” he confesses in a low voice, then before Frank can react, can ask him what the hell he thought he was doing, playing nursemaid to Frank like he cares, Murdock’s slipping out the door and into the night, and Frank’s alone.

There’s a moment where Frank’s torn between chasing after Murdock, or just giving up on getting answers. The throbbing pain in his leg makes that decision for him; it’s a job to keep up with Daredevil on the best of days, let alone in this condition. Instead, he just locks up, resets the traps. Murdock’s not coming back. He limps back over to the cot and eases himself down. Tries to clear his mind, to rid himself of the odd pang of loss and longing he feels at Daredevil’s departure. Concussion means no sleep, and that means not even the familiar spectres of his nightmares to keep him company. It’s going to be a long night.

 


End file.
